The Missing Piece
by grammarye
Summary: A missing episode from the life of Capt. Jack Harkness, in which he witnesses the creation of the Monster. Obviously AU.


**This story began life as an English assignment. The writing prompt given that I chose to write was something along the lines of "Write a short story about the Monster being educated by someone" instead of having him be self educated. I had a whole lot of crazy plot bunnies running around in my head, most having something to do with Captain Jack Harkness. I chose this one as it was easiest to write. In Captain Jack's time-line, this takes place before he is killed in Manhattan in 1890-something. His vortex manipulator has not broken yet. The epilogue bit takes place, presumably, during _Miracle Day_. **

** Enjoy.**

* * *

The Missing Piece

My Jack,

I have written this to be a chronicle of the events leading up to and including my discovery of you. You have often asked me of it, but I pushed you off, saying I would tell you one day. That day has come. Events have forced my hand. If I do not tell you now, I may never be able to tell you of the day I found you.

* * *

I awoke to darkness and to pain. I reached out with the arm that did not pain me and felt a cold corpse beside me. The darkness in the grave is desolate. There is no hope in that darkness; there are only maggots that feed on those who enter it. I reached above me, wishing for a way out, and found that the layer of dirt covering me was thin enough for me to break through. I left that grave and those who had died with me.

Out in the moonlight, I was able to see the arm that pained me. The skin on my hand was pink and raw, in stark contrast with the rest of my arm. Someone had taken it while I was dead. It could not have been taken by those who killed me, as I remembered the time of my death and how it happened. No, the man who had taken my hand had taken it not ten minutes ago.

I looked around at the moonlight reflecting off of the tombstones and the grass, giving the graveyard an ethereal air. Suddenly, I saw a figure digging, disturbing the sanctity of this dead place. I was livid. Not only had this man cut off my hand, but now he was going to desecrate the body of another, one who did not carry the curse of resurrection. I wanted to storm up to him, confront him, tell him what a disgrace he was to humanity by defiling another's grave. I realized that doing so would not help the situation, and at worst he would discover my secret and put me on display, or do something equally horrid to me. Instead, I decided to find out what he was doing.

I stalked him through the graveyard and down back alleyways as he made his way back to his house. I watched as he entered with his bag of human body parts, but I did not follow him inside for fear of discovery. I watched the house day and night, learning his habits. When I became confident that I knew his schedule, I decided to enter his house.

The day was damp, and the trees glistened in the sunlight. The birds serenaded me as I made my way to the man's house. I wanted to bask in the beauty of the day, but there was a task for me to do. I waited for him to leave and slipped in behind him. I knew I had a few hours before he came back, but I wanted to be done as quickly as possible. I surveyed the room, taking in the spartan furnishings. There was a desk, a chair with a lab-coat on it, a table, and some candles. The table had the remains of a breakfast on it. The desk contained letters from and to family and friends. From these I learned his name, Victor Frankenstein. I checked the lab-coat and found papers on the experiment he was working on. For the first time, I was glad I had learned German all those years ago. I read them, learning about the creature he was building; the creature to whom he would give life. I read how he had discovered how to give life, how my hand was instrumental in the process. "The Undecaying Hand," as he called it, was his best find. He experimented on it, extracting that which made it stay fresh. He then put my hand into the creature in order to facilitate the giving of life. I read on, and learned that tonight he was planning to give the creature life. I had to stay to see what he had done, and what he was going to do.

When he came back, I was hidden in a dark niche in the room. I watched as he put on his lab-coat, and followed him up to the attic, where laid the creature he had made. I watched as he gathered his instruments of life around him, as he gave life to the creature while thunder and lightning raged across the sky. I saw the creature come to life, saw him reject it in horror and disgust.

I felt pity for the poor creature, who looked so dejected. I thought that if the creature had a part of me inside of him, did I not have a responsibility for him as well? I decided then to help him in any way I could.

I gathered my courage, walked up to the creature and said "Hello, I'm Jack Harkness, and if you come with me, I'll help you and teach you how to live."

* * *

So now you know the truth, son. I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you for all these years, but I did what I thought was best for you. I must leave to protect both you and myself. I hope to come back to you soon, Jack. If I do not, know that your father always loved you. Live your life well, my son.

All my love,

Captain Jack Harkness

* * *

**Somewhere in America, 20 – **

A man in a WWII RAF greatcoat stands in a cemetery. It is a family plot with many tombstones bearing the same name, Jack Harkness. He focuses on the first and the last. The first is inscribed "Loving Father, Beloved Son." The last, date of death Jan. 21, 1941, reads "A Fine Soldier And A True Credit To His Country." He looks at the long line of men beginning with his son and ending with the group captain whose identity he stole and contemplates the ironies of life.


End file.
